


Until They're Not

by openmoments



Category: real madrid
Genre: La Liga, M/M, RPF, Sports, boys loving boys is how i roll, football - european
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:06:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmoments/pseuds/openmoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're good friends, best friends. Up until they're more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until They're Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cagedlight](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cagedlight).



He knows they talk about them. Little whispers here and there. Sometimes it’s said out loud, all the jokes laced with a touch of seriousness thrown in there because, in honesty, they’re all wondering, but don’t want to say anything, can’t say anything because it’s just one of those things. It’s one of those things you just don’t do and so they don’t, because they know where the line is, and they’ll toe with it (like they do with all the lines they have) but they won’t cross it.

 

They’re just friends. Good friends. Best friends. That sort of little kid faith in each other that they’ve had transition with them. They don’t say it quite like that because they’re men, they’re grown up, they don’t have ridiculous words and feelings like that. So, they’re just friends. Good friends.

 

Up until they aren’t anymore. Up until he falls asleep on his shoulder during long movies, the Spanish subtitles blurring across the screen and too much talking goes in one ear and out the other. Up until he ends up on Sami’s lap because the couch is filled with teenage boys in men’s bodies, fighting for controllers and elbows banging against each other as loud cheers and boos fill the room as pixelated versions of themselves run after electronic footballs across the screen. Up until that moment when he’s playing with the cuff of Sami’s sweater as they sit down at the table. Up until that time that Sami’s fingers brush up against his and send electric currents running up his arm.

They’re just friends.

Up until they aren’t.

 

It’s not a big transition. It’s not a big decision. It’s just something that happens. He wakes up after a late night and a long movie (that he, quite characteristically, did not finish) and Sami’s arm’s thrown across his waist, face pressed into the pillow, snoring. He smiles and just watches. Watches as he breathes, in out, in out, in out, and lays there, under the weight of his arm, under the weight that, for the first time, he’s woken up, not in the guest room as he usually does, but in Sami’s bed, Sami right there.

The thought that he should wonder about that never crosses his mind, and instead he brings up his hand from under the blanket and, feather light, smooths it across Sami’s left eyebrow, gently pressing against the hairs. Sami opens his eyes and smiles and he rests his palm against his face as Sami blinks sleepily, closes his eyes a moment as he buries his head into the pillow before opening them up.

“Good morning,” he says sleepily and as much as it feels like every other day, it’s not.

 

It’s not an overnight change. Nobody notices because there’s nothing to notice. He still falls asleep on Sami’s shoulder during long movies. He still climbs up into his lap as more of their friends climb up onto the couch, yelling at the TV. He still plays with Sami’s cuff and their fingers still brush and send electric currents up his arms.

But now he wakes up in Sami’s bed after falling asleep. Now Sami wraps his arms around his waist, hands creeping up under the hem of his shirt, pad of his thumb gliding over his hips, using the edge of his nail for that feel of a scratch he knows brings in the sound of sucked in breathe. Now when he plays with the cuff of Sami’s jacket, he lets his hands wander, tracing patterns over the pulse in his wrist. Now instead of fingers just brushing, he slips his fingers in between Sami’s and bites his lip at the smile he gets in return, can’t believe he got so lucky.

 

Cris asks him one day, does it casually, doesn’t look up from where he’s tying his cleats.

“Are you and Sami...?” and the question drops off at the end and it’s the first time he’s ever thought about it like that. Cris looks up and he doesn’t know what to say so he just shrugs and Cris accepts it, smiles, ruffles his hair on his way out.

 

Because, really, they were just friends, good friends, best friends. Up until they weren’t. Up until they were more than that.


End file.
